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it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike. Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than thesquarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings mostpeople are snobs.
e. e. cummings
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e. e. cummings
Age: 67 †
Born: 1894
Born: October 14
Died: 1962
Died: September 3
Novelist
Painter
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Cambridge
Massachusetts
e. e. cummings
Edward Estlin Cummings
E. Estlin Cummings
e e cummings
EE cummings
Edward Eatlin Cummings
Pretend
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The hardest challenge is to be yourself in a world where everyone is trying to make you be somebody else.
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And the coolness of your smile is stirringofbirds between my arms
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Seeming's enough for slaves of space and time - ours is the now and here of freedom. Come.
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the other guineahen died of a broken heart and we came to New York. I used to sit at a table,drawing wings with a pencil that kept breaking and i kept remembering how your mind looked when it slept for several years,to wake up asking why. So then you turned into a photograph of somebody who’s trying not to laugh at somebody who’s trying not to cry
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our can'ts were born to happen our mosts have died in more
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If 180 million people want to be undead, that’s their funeral, but I happen to like being alive.
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in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems
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You shall above all things be glad and young.
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We can never be born enough.
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I spill my bright incalculable soul
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XVII Lady, i will touch you with my mind. Touch you and touch and touch until you give me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene (lady i will touch you with my mind.)Touch you,that is all, lightly and you utterly will become with infinite care the poem which i do not write.
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-Before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were.
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To like an individual because he's black is just as insulting as to dislike him because he isn't white.
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When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man
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...and down they forgot as up they grew.
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Always it’s Spring)and everyone’s in love and flowers pick themselves.
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one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
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maybe god is a child ‘s hand)very carefully bring -ing to you and to me(and quite with out crushing)the papery weightless diminutive world with a hole in it out of which demons with wings would be streaming if something had(maybe they couldn’t agree)not happened(and floating- ly int o
e. e. cummings
